Sleep is Not, Death is Not
by Life is but a Daydream
Summary: The story of the 43rd Hunger Games, wherein the blood of children stains the walls and screams echo eternally throughout the mind. 24 go in, but will any remain? *SYOT CLOSED*
1. Introduction

Darkness graces the eyes of the wretched girl, her heartbeat fading and the body wilting. Death overwhelms her, choking the last of the air from her lungs, and a lone cannon sounds as her life melts away like a waning candle. The burgundy pool she lies in glistens in the moonlight, the blood trickling down her face estuaries to this vast ocean.

The screen then goes black.

The Fates are gathered around a holographic table, pouring over the world the decaying girl was once in - a thick, dark forest, blanketed in a thin snow. The head Gamemaker stands at the father's place at the table, assuring his coworkers zero degrees Celsius is not too cold, and commanding the camera men to find the next hero to follow. So many have died, unfortunates caught in the tree-shrouded mouse trap.

"Five left," someone murmurs. "A new record."

The head Gamemaker, Hades, smiles cruelly, a twisted grin manageable by only those who have truly gone mad.

He brings a lost boy into focus on the table. Above his quivering head floats the number 5. "Four soon. He's lasted way too long without any problems." The ruler of this technologic underworld pulls up half a dozen catlike monsters and directs them towards the ill-fated boy.

Screens broadcast the tinny screams of the boy as he is pulled apart by vicious tooth and claw, the emblem of Panem shining in the corner, ensuring the audience will never forget who is in charge of these Games.

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_This is a submit your own tribute. Please limit your submissions to two (2) tributes per person._

Name:  
Age:  
Gender:  
District:  
Health Issues: (Please be realistic)  
Body Type:  
Eye Color:  
Hair Color:  
Strengths:  
Weaknesses:  
Family: (Names and brief descriptions)  
Significant Other:  
Background: (Please refrain from being too tragic)  
Personality: (The more detailed, the better)  
Goal: (What do they want to accomplish going into the Games? Be creative)  
Token:

* * *

**_District List_**

District 1: Luxury Goods (Careers)  
District 2: Masonry (Careers)  
District 3: Technology  
District 4: Fishing  
District 5: Power  
District 6: Transportation  
District 7: Lumber  
District 8: Textiles  
District 9: Grain  
District 10: Livestock  
District 11: Agriculture  
District 12: Mining

* * *

**_Tributes_**

**District 1**

_Male - _Stone Jaxon, 18

_Female - _*Reserved*

**District 2**

_Male - _Erick Eddie, 17

_Female - _Selina Blessing, 16

**District 3**

_Male - _Watt Todd, 16

_Female - _Laleh Izadi, 18

**District 4**

_Male - _Neo Fidel, 17

_Female - _Gingerlilly Rose, 17

**District 5**

_Male - _*Reserved*

_Female - _ Millicent McCoy, 13

**District 6**

_Male - _Stanley Davidson, 12

_Female - _Kelia Tavon, 16

**District 7**

_Male - _Buck Darrington, 14

_Female - _Delta Barton, 15

**District 8**

_Male - _Joseph Sun, 15

_Female - _Mei Golan, 14

**District 9**

_Male - _Samuel "Sam" Rommel II, 16

_Female - _Ilse Von Ettingshausen, 17

**District 10**

_Male - _Fletcher Kempton, 15

_Female - _Audra Greysrta, 17

**District 11**

_Male - _Quince Baker, 12

_Female - _Bryony Silva, 16

**District 12**

_Male - _Altair Mistral, 17

_Female - _Ursa Kling, 13


	2. District 1: That's Just What Humans Do

**A/N: Several tribute spots are still open. Go ahead and submit!**

**Introducing Stone Jaxon of District 1.**

* * *

_Stone Jaxon, District 1_

She wasn't supposed to be here. Not here when he was half-naked, a sword in his hand and sweat dripping down his bronzed body. She was supposed to be at home, helping their mother cook breakfast, not here watching him stab and slice and-

"Cut!" It was the director. Stone Jaxon dropped his sword and leaned against a fake tree, breathing heavily. He wiped the sweat off his brow as interns rushed over to hand him some water and a towel. It was another 80-degree day inside the warehouse where the studio was located, and of course the air-conditioner broke. The shoot had been going on the whole morning, and he had been up since four getting his hair and makeup perfect.

"Stone!" a young girl cried, racing towards him. She expertly wove through the sea of production assistants and managers, ducking beneath the banners advertising _Capitolite Weaponry - Now offering replicas from past Games!_ It was always a mess on the set, a complex maze of people and props and propaganda. Yet Anna-Beth seemed immune to it all as she ran over to her brother, enveloping him in a tight hug.  
"You're going to be late for the reaping," she said, wrapping her small hands around his muscular arm and pulling him toward the exit. "They were only supposed to keep you till ten."

Stone shook his head and laughed, said, "What are you, my agent?" adding on a good-natured ruffle to Anna's head. However, he couldn't stop the frown from creeping across his face. He secretly hated having Anna burst in while he was working. It wasn't that she ruined his concentration, nor was it because she was sensitive to things involving the Games. No, it was simply because he was embarrassed. Capitolite Weaponry had offered him a deal he couldn't refuse when they asked him to model their bows and daggers, but it was mainly just to establish connections with future sponsors. This year he would be going into the Games, and the more people who loved his face, the better chance he'd have at winning.

Dropping off his towel and water glass with a couple of green-haired Capitol interns, Stone followed his sister out of Warehouse 15, into the bright District 1 sunlight. They had hardly made it past the front gates, though, when Anna froze and spun around to face her brother. "You can't go out wearing_ that_," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Why not?" he countered, glancing down at his attire. He dressed in only a pair of camouflage cargo shorts and black running shoes. His chest, muscular and bronzed, was left bare, exposed to the warm June air. "Don't you think I look dashing?"

She rolled her eyes, deadpanned, "you look like a male prostitute." With a grin, Stone silently reasoned she had pretty much hit his look spot on. Of course, it wasn't his choice; the barer, the better was Capitolite Weaponry's motto.

"Fine," he said, "I'll go change." And with a faux-stern look, he added, "make sure you wait for me."

"Take your time!" Anna-Beth called after him as he jogged away.

Warehouse 15 was a wreck when Stone returned to it, as it often was during the taking-down process after shoots. Swords and arrows and knives were strewn every which way on the ground, being gingerly picked up by interns. One of the fake trees had fallen over, collapsing right next to a pile of camera gear. Producers scrambled over the mess with practiced finesse, coiling cords and collapsing chairs all while talking on their phones. No one so much as gave the model the time of day as Stone carefully picked his way through the mess, heading towards his dressing room. That was, of course, until a familiar magenta-framed face popped up in front of him.

"Stone!" Cleo chirped, her mint green eyes wide. She teetered on five-inch high heels, giving her the extra centimeters needed to be face-to-face with the boy she had an unmasked crush on. "Just the man I was looking for. I heard someone left flowers in your dressing room." She winked, before stumbling backwards into the wall, having lost her balance in her heels.

"Really," Stone said, pretending to be surprised. Cleo, the daughter of a game maker, had been trying to get him to kiss her since day one of her internship. With her round red lips and sizable bust, she was undeniably attractive. However, what she made up for in beauty she lacked in brains.

The Capitol girl nodded eagerly, and Stone gently moved her aside, saying with as much enthusiasm as he was able to muster, "That is fantastic, really. I wonder who could've done that." He paused for a moment, taking in her eager face while all the while opening the door, inch by inch. Then, with feigned speculation, he guessed, "was it you?"

"Yes!" she shrieked, embracing him in a tight hug. Stone, struggling to breathe, awkwardly patted the girl's back, wondering if anyone could actually be this stupid. Sidetracked by his thoughts, he didn't realize what was happening until Cleo's lips were smashed onto his in a long, passionate kiss.

He pulled away, surprised, and stumbled back, gasping for air. When he looked up, he saw the girl still had that blithe grin on her face, and for the first time he considered the possibility of Cleo being smarter than one would assume. Though as she tripped in her heels, despite having been still, he disregarded the notion. She was certainly _not_ the sharpest tool in the shed.

"Look, Cleo," he began, nudging his dressing door room open, "you're really sweet and all, but I've got to get ready for the Games. The reaping starts in half an hour. But after, alright? After I win you can kiss me all you like." That wasn't necessarily true, but it seemed to satisfy the girl, which was what he needed right then.

"Gotcha," she said, nodding wisely. She backed up slowly, nearly plowing into two interns carrying a tree. They scowled at the girl and mumbled a few profanities, but in response she gave them an oblivious smile. "After the Games. Got it." She paused before adding, "I'll wait for you!" but by then Stone had already disappeared into his changing room.

Fifteen minutes later, donning a crisp black suit with a carnation in the lapel (courtesy of Cleo's numerous bouquets), Stone and his sister entered the town square. Only a fraction of District 1 was there, the chosen hundred or so who were deemed the best of the best. It was an honor to attend the reaping ceremony at the Justice Building, where everything was live, as compared to the designated squares where the rest of the citizens throughout the District watched the broadcasted footage. Stone and his family were given the honor of attending the official ceremony, given that his father had won the 26th Games and that he would be volunteering this year.

As the mayor took the stage, Anna-Beth whispered "Break a leg," before disappearing into the sea of children. Stone himself found his spot at the front of the crowd, among the other 18-year-old boys. Only a few hushed murmurs rippled throughout the crowd before the mayor began speaking and all fell silent.

The words were as familiar to Stone as the back of his hand. The Treaty of Treason, taught in school, was one of fairness and justice. He never understood why anyone would want to rebel, when the Capitol was so kind. Sure, some of the laws enforced were unnecessary (such as curfew - a concept any teenage boy would hate), but for the most part the citizens were pleasant, although sometimes a bit ditzy.

Such as Sinclair Russo, who took the stage in his signature rose-colored cape. "Dolls first!" he purred into the microphone, strutting over to the reaping bowl. Stone had always thought Sinclair was a bit overdone, and a bit too feminine for comfort. But thoughts were more liberal in the Capitol, he knew, especially those of gender and fashion norms.

The girl called was a redhead thirteen-year-old, smug as she swaggered onstage, confident she'd soon be replaced by this year's female volunteer. He wasn't sure who was planned to volunteer this year - his busy modeling schedule resulting in his training sessions being solo and sporadic, often in the early hours of the morning. She was pretty, though - he'd give her that. But soon enough Sinclair had moved on to the boy tribute.

"Tinsel Chaplin!" he announced with a flourish of his hand, making the occurrence seem all too scripted. Stone watched as a boy from the 17s section shoved his way up to the stage. He was tall and lanky, with flyaway brown hair and a lopsided smile. Despite being told not to count his chickens before they hatched, Stone couldn't help but grin. This boy would soon be known as the one victor Stone Jaxon volunteered for.

"Any volunteers? Volunteers, loves?" Sinclair asked in a singsong voice. On cue, the boy raised his hand, began making his way towards the stage. As he climbed up the steps, he winked at Anna-Beth, whom he could see standing on tip-toe in the back of the crowd. He introduced himself and shook hands with the mayor, Sinclair, and his female counterpart, before being whisked away to the posh Justice Building.

The room itself was no different than the sitting room at the Jaxon house in the Victor's Village - thick oriental carpets, crystal chandeliers, white leather couches. Stone pushed aside some cross-stitched pillows and sat down on the couch, wondering who would visit him. Most of his friends were from the Capitol, met during the many photo shoots he had modeled in, and they were restricted from visiting, which meant neither his executive producer nor Cleo could visit. That left his family - the small, secular group of people he had grown up with, learned to love and loathe all at the same time.

Anna-Beth rushed in first, tackled Stone into a tight hug. She was breathless, yet managed to pant out, "Mom and Dad are fighting… Dad's being weird… Mom's calming him…" In response he snorted in contempt and held his sister closer.

He never knew why his mother - charming and beautiful; the type of woman who opened soup kitchens for the District's poor, despite the Peacekeepers' protests - would marry someone like his father. He supposed Blunt Jaxon was kinder before the Games, or else why would anyone love him? But his whole life Stone had only known his father as an embarrassed drunkard. Blunt was always laughing with his friends over whiskey about his son's failures, while secretly masking his shame at failing to create a strong, infallible young boy.

Anna pulled away, catching her breath, and unlatched the necklace around her neck. "For good luck," she said, depositing it into Stone's hand. He looked down, running his thumb over the pendant, a wooden star inscribed with the initials A.B.J. He remembered making it for her on her tenth birthday, two years ago. He smiled and tucked it into his suit pocket, and the two embraced one last time before their parents came in.

"Look who decided to man up and volunteer!" his father chuckled, lurching forward on unsteady feet. His mother lunged to grab him, to keep him from collapsing on the carpeted floor. Even from halfway across the room, Stone could smell the alcohol on his father. "My little loser son is going to try and win," he slurred. He stumbled over to the white couch, flopped on the cushion next to the boy. Before Stone could stand, his father had his wrist in a death grip, and pulled him closer until they were staring eye-to-eye, only a few inches distance between the two.

"Don't be stupid," his father mumbled, his eyes going cross. His son tried to pull away, but to no avail. "You got to be smart. And fast. But mainly smart. My loser son is going to win, and you know why?" He laughed, a choked, coarse sound. "Because he's smart." Tears then welled up in his father's eyes, and in that moment Stone could see why Blunt was so miserable. He was told constantly his son was a failure, so often that he had accepted it to be true.

"I understand," Stone said. "I'm going to win. No doubt about it." It was true, after all. He had trained both physically and mentally, brushing up on survival skills as well as sword-wielding techniques, and had charmed over many affluent Capitol citizens by modeling. He could do this. "I can win."

His father snorted, then began chortling, his laughter occasionally interrupted by a drunken hiccup. "My loser son is better than yours!" he slurred, roaring now with laughter. Anna and his mother exchanged worried glances. "My loser boy is going to win!"

* * *

**A/N: Question 001: Vogue, vogue. Would you model for the Capitol? And what's your opinion on the Capitol?**


	3. District 2: Strawberry Wine

**A/N: All the tribute spots have been filled, either with your tributes or substitutes. Thank you all submitters! The reapings will be in the point of view of the male tributes of each district, with the pre-Games preparations being in the female tributes' points of view.**

* * *

_Erick Eddie, District 2_

The morning began with murmured whispers and subdued achievement.

"I've just completed the vertical climbing wall battle course, mom," Erick Eddie said quietly to the still woman lying on the bed. He kneeled before her, so his face was level with hers. "The first tribute to in twenty-six years." He grasped her hand, gave it a tight squeeze, in vain attempt to wake her up. But the middle-aged woman didn't stir and her eyes remained unmoving beneath pale eyelids.

With a sniff, the boy got to his feet, releasing her hand and mustering up a foul expression. Only when with his comatose mother did he ever show weakness, a certain vulnerability that always resulted in brutal death, especially in this dog-eat-dog world. His mother, having been in an accident at the quarries, had been unconscious for the past few weeks, creating a large void in the boy's heart. But he wasn't about to reveal his weakness. For good measure he glared at the nurse who entered his mother's hospital room as he made his way out of the sterile white building, which smelled of morphine and rubbing alcohol. District 2 was one of the three Districts that had an official hospital, the other two places being 1 and 4. That was because of the influx of injuries Careers got while training for the Games. Erick himself had never suffered more than a sprained ankle, however, being at the top of his group at the age of 17.

Waiting for him outside the starch white hospital, on a wooden bench surrounded by daises, was a radiant blonde in a silver reaping dress. She waved, jumped up, and before Erick could raise his hand in response, had him in a deathly tight hug.

"Hello sweetie," she breathed into his ear, loosening her grip on the boy. She kept a hand wrapped around his, however, leading him away from the hospital entrance as she continued, "I thought you'd be training. I went to the Centre to look for you, but they told me you weren't there. I was wondering where you went."

"I was there earlier," Erick said, adjusting his wayward tie. It was a glinting silver to match his girlfriend's dress. "But I left before they realized I was the one who gave that thirteen-year-old a black eye." He snorted, continued, "He had it coming, though."

"Off to a great start, then," Selina chuckled, stopping at an intersection to let a truck roll by, its bed full with stone columns. It was on its way to the mountain quarries that framed District 2 on all sides, giving it a picturesque air. Many a Capitol citizen visited in the summer months, when the meadows and forests blanketing the mountains erupted in brilliant wildflowers. "You haven't even been reaped and you're already beating people up," she said. "Save it for the games, sweetheart."

He rolled his eyes in response, led the way across the road. He would never admit it, but he was glad his girlfriend was going into the Games with him. The Training Centre had made the couple the chosen tributes this year, both having had scored highest on their training exams. Confronting death with Selina would be troublesome, yes, but the experience had brought the two closer together. He recalled all the nights they stayed up past curfew, having midnight picnics on cliffs above the quarries, strategizing. Those were the nights that seemed immortal, smelling of strawberry wine and consisting of carefully-made plans, as they formulated all their actions down to which way they'd wave during the chariot ceremonies.

Well, not everything was planned, he thought, using his free hand to finger the ring in his pocket. They conveniently omitted their dying scenes, the blood they'd spill just to ensure the other survived, and forgot to account for their romantic infatuation with each other.

Erick was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he hardly realized Selina was still talking. "My mom said we should take into account the lack of water, since her sister's daughter's friend's cousin, who is a game maker, said there's a likelihood of the arena being a desert biome. Which means we'll need to catch up on how to survive there during the train ride… Erick? Are you even listening?"

"Huh?" was his reply, causing his girlfriend to slap him playfully on the arm. "Sorry, I spaced out. But desert. Right." He struggled to show his comprehension, not wanting to reveal to his girlfriend that he had been ignoring her. "You can get milk from cactuses, right?"

She sighed in contempt, smirked. "Yes, of course you can get milk from cacti. The best time to milk them is between six and eight am, after they've just woken up." She rolled her eyes, said, "No, dumbass. They have water in them, not milk."

He released her hand, held up his own in a defensive gesture. "_Sorry_ I'm not a cactus expert."

By that time, the two had made it to the well-manicured square in front of the Justice Building. It was already swarming with people, attendance (with the exception of required audience members, such as the designated Careers and their families) being on a first come, first serve basis. Onstage, the District escort, Cassia Clary, was assisting the mayor at the podium, while past victors took their seats.

Selina kissed her boyfriend, parting to head for her assigned section with a goodbye, "Good luck, sweetie." Hips swaying, she then disappeared into the crowd. Erick followed suit, shoving his way through the mass of boys until he was nearly at the front of the crowd, standing with the other seventeen-year-olds.

After a few minutes of excited chatter, the noise died down. Erick noticed the Capitol cameras on the edges of the crowd, several feet above the audience, recording the mayor as he began his required speech. It was dull, and through the sea of other teenagers, he could make out the iridescent Selina in her silver dress. She was shifting from foot to foot, running a hand through her blonde hair, and tapping her fingers against her leg. He could tell her hyperactivity had kicked in, making the mayor's dull words even more unbearable for her. He was enthralled with her little idiosyncrasies that game with what doctors deemed her "illness," something he found entrancing, and for a split second was so captivated he was almost vulnerable as he watched her, his harsh façade melting away the longer he stared. But then the mayor stepped down from the podium, Cassia took his place, and Selina returned to attention and the scowl returned.

On rare occasions did someone besides the chosen Career volunteer and take the place of the person who had planned on being tribute, and such occasions seemed to happen more and more often in District 2. Erick gave a swinging glare to the crowd, his narrow eyes even pausing to stare into the cameras, assuring other boys he would _not_ tolerate other volunteers. He had trained for the Games since the age of eight, and got defensive whenever someone tried to oppose him. Being seventeen, a year younger than most District 2 volunteers, he found himself trying harder to maintain his position as the 43rd Hunger Games' male tribute, and soon the 43rd Hunger Games' victor.

Distracted by his thoughts for the second time that morning, Erick didn't realize Cassia had begun the reaping of the female tribute until the slip of paper was in her hand and she was standing on tip-toe at the podium.  
"Beatrice Flores!" she tittered, and a young girl from the back of the crowd began to make her way onstage. Her frizzy brown hair was up in bows, yet she looked serene as she climbed the platform steps. Erick noted how easy it would be to snap her in half, and deemed her lucky Selina would be taking her place.

As soon as Beatrice was onstage, Cassia called out, "Volunteers? Any volunteers?"

From his spot in the crowd, Erick watched his girlfriend's porcelain hand shoot up, watched as she delicately made her way to the stage, her muscles rippling in her tight silver dress, and listened to her melodic voice as she announced her name: "Selina Blesing!" He observed her ruby red lips as she blew a kiss to the crowd, and smiled when she winked at him.

Cassia granted Selina a smile before moving on to the male tribute. He watched as she dipped her manicured hand into the reaping bowl and pulled out a single slip which read, "Edmund Witt."

A burly boy from the row in front of Erick pushed unfortunate boys out of the way as he ascended the stage. Once next to Cassia, he gave a warning look to the crowd - a ruthless scowl, as if daring anyone to try and volunteer. Erick's blood began to boil. There was no way this monster would be taking his place.

"Any volun-" Cassia began to ask, only to be cut off by Edmund saying in a deep voice, "I refuse to have anyone volunteer for me."

The escort blinked, stunned. She seemed to search for appropriate words, finally settling on, "Well, I suppose if you insist..."

Fury welled up in Erick's throat. He started towards the stage, shoving the other boys out of the way. He clambered up the steps, his hands balled into fists. He sized up the massive boy, and said defiantly, "No way in hell you are."

His heart began racing, anger coursing through his veins, as Edmund sized him up. He had a few inches on Erick, who himself stood at 5'11", which gave him the opportunity to stare the other boy down as he thundered, "You can't stop me! It's my right to deny volunteers."

Erick glowered at the boy."Well this is my year," he hissed, and without warning, threw a punch at the boy.

Cassia screamed as his fist made contact with Edmund's head, knocking the boy aside. The bored victors sitting onstage jumped to their feet, lunged toward the two fighting boys. Edmund swung a fist back, which Erick dodged. He aimed a kick at the boy's knee, causing Edmund's leg to buckle as he fell to the ground. The older boy struggled to his feet, only to be knocked unconscious by another kick to the head. Erick's vision turned red as he prepared to kick again, this time at the boy's throat, but as soon as his suede shoe left the ground he was hoisted into the air by a tall, elderly victor.

During this whole time, someone had been screaming, and it didn't occur to the boy until he was locked in the grasp of the old man that it had been him. Selina looked at him with feigned shock, but he could see the masked approval on her face as she stepped aside to let three Peacekeepers carry Edmund away.

The crowd was silent for a few heavy moments. They watched with baited breath as the elder victor released Erick, whose blood was trickling down his face from his nose. Cassia stumbled toward the microphone, breathing hard as she fumbled with it before putting it up to her mouth and saying, "Well, that sure was exciting, wasn't it?" In response, the crowd remained silent. She took a deep breath and gave the crowd a forced smile. Erick edged closer to the now grinning Selina and wrapped his hand in hers.

"I suppose," Cassia began, pausing to let the mayor whisper something in her ear, "I suppose, due to Edmund's severe injuries, we have a new tribute taking his place. Any volunteers?"

No one stirred in the crowd, none of the boys daring to challenge Erick, whose hand had risen into the air.

Cassia teetered over to him, asked, "What's your name, young man?"

She handed him the microphone, and Erick took a long look at the crowd. Many of the other kids were regarding him with awe-filled horror, and the cameramen exchanged worried glances as they continued broadcasting the reaping live. No doubt they were wondering if they'd keep their jobs, much less their lives, after the footage of the brawl aired across Panem.

The boy grinned at the cameras, said, "Erick Eddie. My name is Erick Eddie."

Cassia took back the microphone, her petite hands shaking severely, yet she seemed comforted by this answer. "Well, alright then! May I present to you," she said with a nervous smile, "this year's tribute of District Two: Selina Blesing and Erick Eddie!"

* * *

**A/N: Question 002: A desert arena, huh? What are your arena ideas?**


End file.
